The Thief and the Mercenary
by Rising Bashir
Summary: For years, Inspector Fox has tried and failed to apprehend Sly cooper. Dissatisfied with the lack of results, the Interpol turns to an mysterious and deadly Mercenary, against which the Master Thief will struggle for his very freedom-and the one he loves.
1. Meeting Mr Russo

The imitation marble tiles of the corridor clacked rhythmically under his expensive black leather shoes as Chief Inspector Vincent Sable walked down the corridor to his office. A determined grimace was plastered onto his face as he neared the red oak doorway.

He glanced at the bronze plaque below the tinted glass of the door stenciled _**Chief Inspector V. Sable **_and turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Stepping inside the room he was greeted by his aide. "He just got here, sir." The short man said to him; his aid was red faced, and judging by his slightly shaken appearance, it seemed the rumors about their guest's mannerisms were rather accurate.

He sighed and looked at the second door leading to his private work area, "Thank you Rogers; make sure I am not interrupted." Rogers acknowledged and he stepped over to the other door.

Putting on his best impassive-government-official's face he placed a hand on the door handle. He had earned this office of power in the INTERPOL headquarters by one simple virtue: being and doing better than everybody else. This was just another chance to prove that. He turned the handle and entered.

Inside, his private office was dark. All of the lamps had been switched off and the large window on the far wall was shuttered. Stepping over to his desk, he flipped the switch on a table light. The new illumination allowed him to see the many decorations on the walls and floor of his spacious office, and the dark shape sitting across from him.

Vincent had known he was there, but the sudden materialization of the man from the dark still made him jump slightly. The figure in the chair across from the desk straightened and he took a good look at him.

The man was very tall, even slouching in a large padded chair, he was imposing. Beneath a horribly worn wide brim felt hat, a grizzled and scarred face with a short, unkempt beard with a pair of dull green eyes glared at him with some variation of contempt and interest; the blemished skin was a tan brown color. He was wearing an impossibly dusty travel coat and a pair of old trousers. Beneath the coat Vincent could see two distinct bulging shapes; he had a fair guess that this man was currently armed.

His thin, dry lips were twisted into a sardonic grin. "Did I scare you, Inspector? Most sincere apologies." Vincent ignored the jibe, studying the voice; it was deep and bitter sounding, heavily accented, Far eastern European or Russian perhaps?

Instead, he decided to open with small talk. "So, Mr. Russo, I hear you arrived just recently; was your flight comfortable?"

Russo's grin widened further. "I see covert operations plane designs haven't changed in the last fifty years; cramped, dark, and absolutely fucking filthy." He laughed, "I slept like a damn baby." He crossed his arms and watched as Vincent shifted slightly at the man's language.

It seemed that being packed into a secret operation task force plane and being transported cross-continentally to a government office was nothing new to this man.

He recalled the data files that he had received for briefing. _Seyrei Russo, Age: Unknown, Birth date: Unknown, Country of origin: Unknown. Earliest records date from pre-cold war era, highly skilled tracker and assassin, freelance mercenary bounty hunter, awful manners. _That was the story everybody knew, and there wasn't much else anybody knew about him. Though there were some highly interesting facts that were less commonly discussed.

Apparently there was more to the story than most bureaucrats were aware. At some point in his very long lifespan, Russo came across a nearly fatal accident. In a mysterious series of events, he was, if data was reliable, caught in the middle of an arms plant explosion; though he survived, his heart was damaged beyond repair. By more mysterious circumstances, Russo came across a prototype of a very sophisticated artificial heart, which the few chances to study it suggest technology decades ahead of even today's artificial heart models. Whether through high technological innovation or some bizarre sorcery, Russo's aging had been extremely slowed, making it impossible to determine his true age.

But what interested Vincent, and the higher ups of INTERPOL, was that in his superhumanly increased lifespan, Russo had become an unparalleled master of assassination and bounty hunting. It was a well known fact that many governments had called this man to track down wanted criminals, or make rebellious thorns in their side, "disappear." Even his own government, Vincent thought, had probably hired his services in the past.

But now it was time to get to business. "Your reputation precedes you Mr. Russo, very impressive. You're also a very hard man to find." That was an understatement; trying to contact him had kept his entire department busy for weeks on end.

He stood from his seat and walked to a cabinet situated against the wall. From it he pulled a fine crystal decanter filled with expensive cognac and a pair of glasses. Returning to his desk, he filled both glasses and offered one to the mercenary and sat down.

Vincent looked across the desk at Russo as he sniffed the alcohol and then knocked it back in one gulp. To Vincent's consternation, the man's face soured and he began to rifle through his coat's pockets while muttering to himself; he wasn't certain, but Vincent thought he heard Russo say under his breath "…I've pissed stronger stuff than this." As he watched, he pulled out a heavily scuffed silver drinking flask from a pocket and unscrewed the cap.

A powerful odor of what Vincent assumed was Vodka-or may have once been- assaulted him. His sensitive nose wrinkled and burned, and it took all of his self control to keep from sneezing; whatever was in that flask was downright caustic. Through his watering eyes he saw Russo take a generous swig and messily wipe his lips with the cracked leather gloves he was wearing.

Russo offered the silver flask and its acidic contents to him. He hastily declined, settling back into his chair and sipping his own glass of cognac. Russo shrugged and tucked the flask back into a pocket.

Time to get to the point, Vincent thought. "I believe you already should have an inkling of why we have brought you here, yes?" Russo gave a slight nod of his head. "And I assume you have some idea who Sylvester James Cooper is as well?"

This brought a much more visible reaction. Russo's formerly impassively mocking grin was replaced by a ferocious scowl, his downturned lips and green eyes burned with an all consuming dislike. He sat up straighter in his chair. "A God-damned thief," As if in punctuation of that statement, he spat on the short blue carpet, as though talking about such things were as foul tasting as the subjects were morally dubious. Vincent blanched slightly and had to restrain himself from reprimanding the mercenary.

"And of the worst fucking kind, one who treats his bare-faced robbery as though it were a game, a damn pastime! And he actually has the gall to consider himself _honorable_!" Now this was interesting, Vincent thought, it seemed that Mr. Russo had a fierce dislike of the aforementioned Cooper; this might make his job so much easier.

It seemed Russo was going to continue with his angry rant, but appeared to catch hold of his tangent. "Yeah, I know the bastard. What does this have to do with me?" Now it was time to work his government angle.

Vincent leaned forward on the desk, interlocking his fingers. "As I'm sure you know, Mr. Cooper is a highly wanted criminal. And I'm also sure you are aware that all attempts within INTERPOL and other national authorities have proved rather…Fruitless." Inwardly Vincent frowned to himself and wondered how so much time and resources could be directed at this one, seemingly simple task, yet all prove for naught. "So, my superiors have decided perhaps the course to take, is one that is more, _Independent._"

Russo seemed to be getting the implications, but asked "I thought Cooper was the job for that harpy fox with the attitude issue?" Eesh, Inspector Carmelita Fox; that was a person he could go without seeing again for a long time.

"Yes, apprehension of Cooper has for quite some time been under the jurisdiction of Ms. Fox, however, she is no longer on the case and has been reassigned."

That made it sound so easy; when he and Inspector Fox had stood before their boss, she had been told that her lack of results was no longer tolerable, and she was being removed from the case; instead, he had been placed on the mission, with orders to use every means necessary to finally apprehend Cooper. To say Inspector Fox didn't take it well would be an understatement; the screaming rage she had flown into had been quite awe inspiring, and the vigor in which she had tried to strangle him had been more than impressive. It had taken three other officers to drag her off him.

While Fox was dedicated, maybe even obsessive, she simply didn't get results. If Vincent had to use one word to describe Russo, it would likely be _Insane. _But if his record was trustworthy, he would get results.

"Ah." It was a relatively simple word, yet the manner in which it was uttered was oddly chilling. "So you have brought me here, so that I can finally blast that son of a bitch to kingdom come eh?" The nonchalant tone he used when discussing killing…

"No, no, I have been ordered to apprehend Cooper _alive_, and I think you know by now where you fit into all of this. What do you think?" If he was lucky, Russo's predilection for a dislike of thieves would sway him to accept without excessive negotiation.

The old bounty hunter leaned forward over Vincent's desk; he slowly removed his felt hat and set it onto his lap, exposing his short salt-and-pepper hair. He looked at Vincent. "Oh, I have no doubt about what you want from me, that's the simple bit. What I'm interested in, is what you are willing to do for me." Russo's smug grin returned and the ancient leather of his glove creaked and groaned as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

Classic hunter behavior; Vincent sighed inwardly and spoke. "INTERPOL offers a sum of fifty thousand for the capture of-"

He was interrupted by a strange sound. Russo had his head thrown back, and his jaws were wide open and his chest was heaving; an unpleasant rough choking sound was spilling from his throat. It took a moment for Vincent to realize that he was laughing.

"_Heh, heh, heh-_Boy, I've killed men for asking me to do less for more than you are right now." For a moment Vincent's face betrayed fear. "But… Since you're giving me a chance to legally kick that son of a bitch's ass, I'll do it for Sixty-five. And, I'll also need full sanctioning to use the methods I'll require; within legal limits of course."

Vincent gave an internal sigh of relief; he had expected the foul mannered mercenary to demand as much as one hundred thousand. Pulling on his best bullshit government agent's grin, he queried "So, we've come to an agreement?"

The Bounty Hunter said nothing, and simply stuck out a thick, scarred leather gloved hand. Smiling, Vincent took the proffered hand and shook it.

Standing out of his seat, he reached into his suit pocket and withdrew a thin, hard plastic tablet card. He placed it on the desk and slid it across; Russo picked it up between two of his fingers and gazed at it, studying the item.

And suddenly the old man's lips split into a wide predatory grin, his flat white teeth standing out against his dark face. Vincent also began to grin excitedly; this was the start of the hunt, and though he wasn't a direct part of it, the allure was slightly intoxicating.

But the experience was much more refined for the Bounty Hunter, and his green eyes flashed with glee as he looked at the Warrant Slate for Sylvester James Cooper.

Standing from his chair, Seyrei Russo tucked the slate into a pocket; and grabbing his hat and replacing it on his head he gave an approving nod to the INTERPOL agent. "I think this will prove to be a very profitable venture for the both of us." He said.

Vincent nodded, "Indeed, Mr. Russo; and of course, we will provide the means for your transportation back to St. Petersburg."

Russo laughed again, and leaned over Vincent's desk. He plucked several silver plated pens and a highly valuable solid gold cigarette case and stuffed them into his coat. He turned and walked to the exit way and opened the door. Turning back to the Agent still behind his desk he waved one of the silver pens in the air in front of him.

"Screw that shit; this time I'm flying first class!"


	2. A special sort of Predator

The raccoon is unaware.

He leans under the shade of the great oak tree, seeking respite from the merciless sun; oblivious to his peril. His eyes are not on guard, nor are his ears vigilant. No weapon exists at his side, it has been left behind, and he has not plotted an escape route if danger were to come.

The raccoon believes himself to be safe, and has afforded no contingency for escape or defense; he thinks that his spot beneath the tree in the park is not vulnerable. He shall pay for his mistake.

The hunter creeps forward.

Unlike his unwitting prey, the hunter follows his instincts. Silent, keeping to the shadows formed by the vast tree's spreading boughs, the hunter creeps forward. Unbearably slow, with every care taken, every move run through a predator's mind. So close, and yet, one wrong move and all is lost; the element of surprise must be his.

Nearly there, the hunter moves into position…Strong legs tense, ready to spring at the right moment. Patience, patience is key; but so close to his target! He is in position. He leaps.

"**GOTCHA!" **Dante shouted.

"Ahhhh!" Sly Cooper yelped as the larger fox tackled him around the waist and both of them fell to the soft green turf with a dull _thud_.

Half flattened by the man on top of him, Sly pushed at him with mock resistance, while the red fox half-fought to keep him down. Then, with a mischievous grin, Dante began to viciously tickle the ringtail on the ribs and underarms.

Sly began to laugh uncontrollably, and with a burst of desperate strength, flipped Dante over and pinned the fox to the ground. With a shout of "Oh, now you're in for it!" he unleashed a barrage of merciless tickling on him.

Dante's eyes bulged and his chest heaved as he laughed. He tried to roll out from under the raccoon, but his former prey had him held tight. The hunter had become the prey, it seemed.

"S-Sly-Come on, St-stop it! Ah, Please!" he begged. Sly stopped for a moment and cocked his head; beneath him Dante panted, and looked pleadingly up at the raccoon.

Cooper grinned, "Convince Me." He said childishly.

Dante's eyes narrowed and his lip pouted out defiantly. "Never." He quipped.

"Oh really?" Sly growled, raising an inquisitive eyebrow; "well, I guess I'll have to just keep going until you do!" He waggled a finger threateningly.

Dante looked around, for anything that could aid him; seeing none he sighed.

"Well?" Sly demanded. Thrusting his neck upwards, Dante brought his lips up to the raccoon's. Taken totally by surprise, his chocolate brown eyes widened. The raccoon's grip on the fox slackened; Sly broke the kiss and straightened.

"I suppose that works." He said, blushing slightly, trying to sound indifferent as he slid off of the fox beneath him. Dante grinned smugly as he sat up and dusted himself off.

Sly had scooted to the side and sat with his back against the tree. Dante stood up and walked to the spot he had leapt at Sly from; a brown paper sack and two clear plastic bottles of mineral water sat on the grass. Dante stooped and picked them up and walked back over to where Sly was sitting and settled down next to the raccoon.

He handed the raccoon one of the bottles and tore open the sack and retrieved two chicken salad sandwiches and tossed one to Sly, who nodded in gratitude and began hungrily tearing into it. Dante sighed and opened his bottle, taking a long draught and pouring a small quantity onto his hair.

"Boy, it is hot out." He said, and looked around. Far above, the noonday sun was beating down heavily on the park and its groups of recreational visitors.

"Mm hm," Sly replied; his eyes were unfocused, and his gaze seemed to have no particular destination. Dante stared at the raccoon worriedly; his husband seemed to be so distracted.

He sighed and grabbed Sly's hand. "You should really be more careful of what's around you, you know." He admonished. What if it had been someone else, someone dangerous, who had crept up on the distracted Cooper?

Sly turned his head towards him, frowning. "Oh come on Dante; it was just you sneaking up on me, what's the big deal?" he said, trying to dismiss the concerned fox.

Dante wasn't going to have any of that, "But what it _hadn't _been me? What then?" He pressed the question.

Sly pulled one of his famous grins. "Dante, we're in the middle of one of the busiest parks in the city, surrounded by people. What's someone going to do, throw a Frisbee at me when my back is turned?" He laughed at his joke, "Come on, seriously."

Dante wasn't convinced; "What if you weren't surrounded by people, what if you were alone and I couldn't get to you in time?" he cried. His hand squeezed Sly's even tighter, and the raccoon's eyes widened; he hadn't realized how suddenly distressed Dante was.

"Look, Dante; who is there that could pose any threat to us? Some random street thug isn't even on the charts for danger; there's no Clockwerk, Neyla's gone, Jack is in prison," he saw the fox's face twist momentarily with fury, and continued, "Hell, your sister isn't even _able _to chase us anymore; she got kicked off the case a few weeks ago. There is no one who can hurt me anymore."

He squeezed Dante's hand reassuringly in turn. The fox said nothing, and averted his eyes.

"Aw, come on; I thought you said you were going to relax a little, we're married, you don't have to worry about losing me. " He tried to use that piece of reasoning with the overprotective fox.

Slowly, Dante looked back up into the raccoon's chocolate brown eyes and a slight smile grew on his face. "That's all the more reason to spend every moment I can spare watching you," His smile grew wider, "Striped Tail."

"And with you watching me, what could happen? A speck of dust could land on my shirt and you'd kick its ass all the way to Switzerland," He leaned on the fox and nuzzled his cheek into his neck. "whipping Tail." He said teasingly.

Dante stroked the messy stand of hair on his husband's head; "You were right though, it is hooot! I think I'll take a nap." The raccoon said as he snuggled closer to the fox.

Despite the sounds of the people around them, the raccoon's gentle breathing soon slowed and he began gently snoring on Dante's shoulder.

The ex-cop sat there for a long while, simply listening to his love's sweet breathing and feeling the soft rhythm of the raccoon's heart. He thought about their conversation; how he couldn't imagine living without the Cooper snoring away next to him, and how he would die for the man.

'_With you watching me, what could happen?' _He listened to that voice in his head over and over, seeing how much faith and trust his love had for him. He would go to the ends of existence, fight fate itself if he could to protect Sly.

Yes, if ever it came to it, he would die for him.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, I would like to apologize in advance for this. I simply, cannot, write, fluff. So I'm really sorry about this chapter, but I suppose that to help dramatic interaction, I've got to have a little reference to the relationship stuff. Also, this chapter is shorter than I would like, and hopefully the others will be longer. The story shall continue onwards.<strong>

**And thanks to the magnanimous Slylady for letting me use her characters; Dante and Jack belong to her. Sly and all of the other characters from the games belong to Sucker Punch.**

**Review, I'd love to hear your input. Feel free to also flame or troll, I can always use a good laugh.**


	3. Babba Lentshkin

Datashka was a small town, fifty miles south of Kiev; within the town, Seyrei Russo walked along a street. Even though it was spring, piles of snow sat heaped around green grass patches, and puddles of icy slush obstructed his path. He simply walked through the puddles, heedless of the mud that clung to the soles of his boots.

He soon saw his destination: A small two storey house with plain white walls and a black tar shingled roof. Thin but healthy shrubs decorated the area before a small porch. Next to the front door was bolted a mail box; a small metal tile read _**Delia Lentshkin. **_

He rapped on the blue painted door with one knuckle several times and then settled back on his heels and waited.

He heard the door click, and then it swung open, revealing a short, old woman. She was a full foot shorter than him, with a long, thin wrinkled face and ear-length white hair. Large, calloused hands rested on the brass door handle. Her powder blue blouse and black skirt hung loosely on her wiry frame, and her eyes were an icy gray. They seemed to hold equal amounts of scathing frugality and warm maternal kindness.

It was those eyes that turned upwards to study the stranger that had arrived at her door. Her thin pale pink lips turned downwards at the corners suspiciously. "Yes? What do you want?" Ah, so she didn't recognize him. The revelation saddened him and he thought how to continue.

His voice's tone changed to a tenderness that he hardly remembered he had, and when it came out, it was quiet and tinged with hurt that he had forgotten he could feel. "_Is it so soon these days that a woman forgets the faces of her children_?" He slowly removed his hat, fully exposing his face to her.

Shock flashed in the old woman's eyes and her mouth began to quiver. She looked again at his features and her arms shook weakly; her countenance had changed to one of a person who could not distinguish reality from the depths of a dream. He could see recognition forming in those gray eyes and he took a small tentative step towards her.

Suddenly and without warning, the old woman's arms shot into the air above her head and a shrill cry of joy tore from her lips and launched herself at Seyrei, who was too startled to react, and latched her thin arms around his midsection in a powerful embrace. Seyrei wobbled on his feet and fought to keep balance while the old woman squeezed his rib cage with strength that belied her small stature. Her thin face was pressed against his travel coat, sobbing; tears ran down into the cloth, splotching and mingling in the filthy material. Through her incoherent speech, he was able to make out some words. "Oh, Seyrei; child, my dear, dear, Seyrei!"

He felt a steam of elation in his gut and he stooped and flung his arms around her as well; "Babba!" he cried; he craned his neck and kissed the top of her head. A profound sense of happiness filled him and he laughed, and found it was deep and rich, not the hideous scarred sound that he was used to; the observation disturbed him, how different he was when with her.

Before he could ponder it further, he saw that she had regained control of herself and was looking up at him, watery eyes shining with mirth; she clasped one of his gloved hands, "So long it has been, since I've last seen you," she paused, more tears welling in her eyes, "Oh, my boy; how could I ever forget you!"

He hugged her tighter, "Two years past, three weeks ago grandmother. How I have missed you." He said softly.

"As have I;" She pulled away from the embrace, and straightened her disheveled hair. She pulled out a kerchief and wiped her eyes with it. "But now you are here again, and the Lord has blessed us with that little thing."

She turned on her heel and beckoned for him to follow her inside. His heavy boots thumped on the polished hardwood floor as he walked into the house. It was just as he remembered it; frugally decorated, but warm and inviting. She passed through a door and out of sight. From years of honing skills of observation, he noticed several pieces of furniture were missing; the empty spots where they had formerly sat were painfully distinct against his memory.

He suddenly frowned worriedly; he had placed money in her account before he had left, but there was the economic situation; she hadn't seemed in a bad way, but if something had happened…

"Babba, has everything been alright?" he called out, concerned.

He heard the shuffling of unseen items and the clack of feet on wood. Delia's head poked out of the doorway, a freshly lit cigarette in between her lips "What?" She asked; white eyebrows knitted together.

He pointed at the wall with several empty spaces; "There is furniture missing. You haven't run out the money I left have you?" Or perhaps she had been robbed? The thought made his fists reflexively clench in rage. "Did a thief break in?"

Delia looked at him incredulously for a moment and then laughed, "Eh? No, no, I gave those chairs away; they were becoming moth-eaten and damn dusty." She exhaled a cloud of whitish smoke." No, my boy; with the amounts that you leave every time you go off somewhere, I couldn't spend it all if I tried. And you know there isn't a burglar in the country that would be foolish enough to try stealing from us."

He knew this was true; the sums that he deposited as a safety for her were exorbitant. Few people had actually met Delia Lentshkin's mysterious "grandson" and none actually knew what he did for a living; but it was plain enough that he was not the kind of person to steal from.

"I know, but I cannot help but worry for you." He replied.

"Ah, I can't say I don't appreciate the care though." She took a thick draw from the cigarette, exhaled, and crushed it out in an ashtray lying on a small table near the door. She walked over to Seyrei and patted him lovingly on the arm. "And God bless you for that as well."

He reached a hand into a coat pocket and brought out the gold cigarette case he had taken from the Interpol Agent that had hired him. "Here Babba, I brought you this from Italy." He held it out for her to see. The shiny surface glinted wonderfully as the old woman took it.

She smiled with delight as she admired the case, and then set it on the table next to the ashtray. She hugged him tightly again.

Suddenly she pulled back, her nose wrinkled petulantly; "Agh, you're filthy; and you smell like a pigsty." She looked behind him and saw the muddy boot prints on the wood floor and clucked disapprovingly. "Off with that coat. Hang it on the hook, the hook! Mercy, when was the last time you bathed?" She shook her head and pointed up the stairs with a thin finger. "This won't do; get your arse up there and take a shower; there's no way you're eating in my kitchen like this. And check the upstairs closet, there are some old outfits of yours. Put them on."

He complied and began trudging up the stairs to the bathroom, where he stripped out of his clothing and stepped into the shower. He was fairly surprised at how much dirt could cling to a person's body; and when he finally stepped out, he could have sworn he actually felt lighter.

Dressed in a red corduroy shirt and brown pants, Seyrei trotted down the steps. He could smell the odor of food on the air and followed it into the kitchen. He found Delia sitting at the room's small table, which was set with a kettle of soup, a loaf of sourdough, and two sets of bowls and silverware.

He settled down into the chair and Delia reached out a veined hand across the table; "Would you say grace?" He nodded and took her hand in his own; without his gloves, his hands were rough and pale, and marked with multitudes of scars and nicks. Bowing his head, he thanked God for their food and health and for allowing them to have a meal together.

"And thank you, oh lord; for gifting me as you have, and allowing me to service the world of your creation, may I never disappoint thee. Amen." He finished, and ladled a bowlful of soup into Delia's bowl before pouring himself a serving. In front of him sat a glass of plain water; normally he would eat dinner with a few gulps of Vodka, but he had left the silver drinking flask in his coat upstairs. Despite Delia's guiltless chain smoking, she utterly condemned his drinking habits, and he knew better than to risk a tirade from the old woman.

He picked up a knife and began sawing off a chunk from the loaf. "So what kind of scum have you been bringing in these two years?" the old woman asked after taking a bite "I heard a news report about you offing that hotshot kidnapping group and their leader a few months back. What was his name? Wasn't it Brundy the Beastly or something like that?"

He looked up from his soup, scowling with distaste, "Bradley the Brutal, at least, that's what he called himself; a cowardly little shit who enjoyed the pain of others but couldn't take any himself. Definitely did a service to the world when I shot his brains out against a wall; I swear I felt the average intelligence of the world rise a bit after it." He shrugged almost nonchalantly, "It has been the same; petty thugs that get too confident for their own good and pettier Government officials who hire me to catch or kill them. The only thing that seems to have changed is how many more of them pop up every year."

Delia nodded happily at him. "That's what I like to hear Seyrei; you have done much for the world."

"Just like you taught me." He replied. Her eyebrows rose inquisitively.

"Ha, me? I'm just a senile old woman who takes in mysterious assassins as children." She put on an exaggerated expression of age and bobbed her head.

Seyrei frowned, "But with age comes wisdom Babba." He protested.

Delia laughed, "Right, and you actually believe that? If we go by that reasoning, you should be off debating in some prestigious university, not tracking down thieves. From what you've told me, you're old enough to be _my _father." She lightly tapped the table with a palm. "But enough of that which we do not know; will you be staying for Church tomorrow?"

He nodded, "Of course." He wouldn't miss an opportunity like this; finding a church in many of the places he hunted was difficult. Finding time to attend one was even harder. "But I'll have to leave the next day; I've just been hired by Interpol itself. It's a very high profile bounty; the one called Sly Cooper and his pack of mongrels. I've been waiting years to be given 'legal' permission to get rid of him; too bad they want him alive."

_Light, blinding light spears into his eyes, turning the night darkness into noon brightness._

_The roars of detonating explosives punctuated by the ping and squeal of ammunition cooking off and heat like the fires of hell assault his senses._

_A wave of overpressure flattens him, sending him toppling on his back. As he struggles his feet, another wave sends him stumbling and fighting to retain balance. _

_A third, thudding boom and he was engulfed in a storm of shrapnel. A hail of wood splinters and shattered fragments of brick and ceramic needle at his skin; a bullet sings from the blaze red-hot, flying across the skin of his back, carving a scratch. Dazed with pain and noise, he staggers drunkenly, trying to find a way from the inferno._

_He feels a curious sensation from his ribs and looks down. A spike of wood, charred and smoldering, protruded from his chest at an angle. Blood ran from the laceration glinting madly in the light of the blaze and staining the steaming wood. Weak at the knees, he reached with trembling fingers at the projectile, impaled where his heart was._

_One last, earth shattering detonation; loud as the thunder of God, and he was swallowed by flames. _

_Seyrei Russo screamed, and the sound was lost over the sound of his death._

"**GAAAHHHH!" **he shouted, bolting upright. Seyrei's chest heaved and his skin and bed sheets were drenched in sweat. He looked around in the cool night air and gazed out the room's window at the moon as he calmed his breathing.

No scorched flesh adorned his bones, replaced with tough tanned skin; and no open wounds leaked his life's blood onto burning soil, they had become scars, faded from age. The dream, vivid as it was, was but a phantom vision; a ghost of another lifetime. But the pain was still as clear as though it had happened a week ago.

He turned his head towards the door; he was certain Delia had heard his cry, but she was well acquainted with his night terrors and flashbacks, and he knew she would not inquire about it.

He sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss past his teeth. When on a hunt abroad, the dreams were of little issue; usually he would be exhausted from chasing criminals that he would sleep to deeply for dreams. But when he would come here, and be able to sleep lightly; nightmares of a past he couldn't even remember would haunt him mercilessly.

He glanced at a clock; the glowing LED display told him it was a long time till morning and he settled back onto the bed, hoping to fall back into a fitful at best few hours of sleep.

He closed his eyes and one hand found its way to the metal plate that shined lightly in the glow of the moon that covered the entirety of his left breast. Through his finger he could feel the perfectly rhythmic beating of the mystical iron heart below that plate that had kept him alive for entire lifetimes compared to other people.

Absentmindedly his finger found and traced the design engraved upon it: the spread wings and curving talons of the black silhouette of an Owl.

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, an end of the week update; any guesses which Owl we're referencing here? Don't get the wrong idea about Russo; he's just a good guy who loves his grandma…Who he's actually older than. When he meets the Cooper gang, he is going to be a hardass jerk. Note, he isnt actually related to her; but that will be explained later on.<strong>

**And so the story continues! Read and review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.**


	4. On the Trail

'_Boredom has been a given part of existence, from the very first marks of higher order thinking, to the present day. It serves to motivate the body and mind to action when in times of idleness; whether to procure food or territory, or break social stagnation. A direct result of inactivity, boredom can be an indicator of negative health factors in one's lifestyle, but in itself is completely harmless.'_

Sly Cooper shook his head as he read the paragraph from Dr. Tortmerius Breto's A_ Civil Guide to Modern Psychology, which _he had stolen from a bookstore a week ago. He couldn't disagree more with the old shrink. To him, life was to be lived in motion, in danger and adventure; to live daringly was the Cooper way.

He sat at a table in the kitchen, the thick tome laid before him. One hand propped up his chin wearily while the other drummed its fingers in a rhythm-less tune. He gave a long, despairing sigh, _Months, three months _since his last heist! Coopers were meant to live their lives like Blue Stars, burning with power, men of action until they burned out all of their energy; even then, their ends magnificent.

This was not how a Cooper lived.

He loved Dante with all his heart, and would endure nigh any torture for his husband. But this was mortal agony. Dante was a proficient thief, and could certainly be helpful in a heist, but it wasn't the same when his husband was there. His unceasing concern and near homicidal protectiveness were an omnipresent anchor, keeping him from fully embracing thievery in the _Cooper _way. It shamed him to think it, but Dante was _suffocating._

But he couldn't put all the blame on his husband. Very few worthwhile opportunities had presented themselves in recent times. Petty robbery was out of the question; by no means was it the way to forge a legacy befitting his heritage. _Oh, and seeing how I'm never going to have children, I'm probably going to be the last of my century-spanning dynasty- _He cut off the bitter mental rant before it could take hold; such problems were the last thing he wanted to think about.

With a long, melancholy sigh, he shoved the psychology book away, unable to bear reading any more of the dry text. As the tome slid away, it shifted a pile of unsorted mail and magazines. From the corner of his eye, Sly noticed a red bordered page with bright gold words. On a whim, he extracted the page, which turned out to be an issue of a science magazine.

As his eyes ran over the words and pictures on the page, his formerly depressed frown burst into his trademark ear-to-ear grin, and his eyes flashed with excitement. He leapt from his chair, knocking it over in the process, and dashed into the rest of the house, magazine clamped in one hand. "Bentley, Murray, I've just found the end to our employment issues!"

XXXXXX

The sky over Moscow was clean azure and not the thinnest of clouds hung over the city, but the air was cold and icy sharp. The sun sat in the sky, but gave no warmth to the citizens below; the persons of the three-thirty commuter floods walked with hats and scarves pulled close and jackets drawn tight.

Among them Seyrei Russo marched on the sidewalk, concealed in a sea of hard-set faces and robust bodies; here, he needed no disguise, he was camouflaged in plain sight. He walked in step with hands shoved in his coat pockets, the patter of shoes and the growl of car engines surrounding him.

Then, with a single turn and a step into an adjacent alleyway, he was alone again. Cold shadow covered him as he started to walk down the alley. His boots crunched on the wet gravel and the sound reverberated off the chipped and cracked brick walls to either side of him, but there were none to hear.

Several minutes journey found Seyrei back in the open. He was in a small lot surrounded on three sides by buildings, with the last side exposed to the street. Small clumps of skittish birds pecked at the concrete and a group of listless teenagers eyed him from a porch but did not move as he stepped from his backway passage and into the lot.

He crossed the open yard to his destination: a tall, squat boarding house whose decrepit red brick front and unwashed windows were even less inviting than the dark dampness of the alley. He skirted a deep puddle and walked up to the door without a single glance edgewise.

He tested the handle and, finding it to be unlocked, pulled the door open. It creaked loudly and he stepped inside.

The small room was much statelier than the outside of the building would suggest; smooth polished wooden planks made up the floor, upon which lay a slightly dusty green rug and four padded armchairs and a small table. A long desk covered in a disarray of papers and empty bottles sat along one wall. The room was well lit by a number of wall lamps that lent a calming brightness to the room. There were even several potted plants and hanging pictures of warm, tropical places and flowers.

A television set sat in one corner of the room, the shiny screen displaying a pretty-faced newswoman giving the week's weather forecast. In one of the armchairs in front of the television a fat boar slouched facing away from him with a an open bottle of liquor in one trotter watching the newscast.

The door slid shut behind Seyrei with a wooden _thump _and the figure in the chair turned his flabby head in his direction. The house's landlord gazed at him for several seconds with small, watery eyes, and then jerked his head towards a staircase that occupied another corner, causing his pudgy jowls to quaver petulantly. The landlord was not one for conversation, and Seyrei had no problem with that in the least, simply nodding his thanks before placing a hand on the steel banister and starting to walk up the steps.

The steps beneath his feet creaked and groaned incessantly as he climbed four flights of the stairs, and clouds of dust floated up in the musty air and clung to his jacket. Seyrei allowed himself a small grimace: it was apparent that this part of the building hadn't been cleaned in years.

At the top of the flight he followed the connected hallway past several doors until he came to one near the end of the hall. He reached toward the handle, expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, the handle twisted freely and the door swung inwards. He peered into the darkness within before slowly stepping inside.

The apartment was completely unlit, and a lining of dust coated the floor and walls. The windows were shuttered and only a few broken pieces of furniture littered the rooms. At a glance, the whole apartment seemed deserted.

But Seyrei stepped through the empty living space and went to the far wall. He placed both hands on a square of peeling wallpaper and pressed hard. There was a click, and he pushed the panel in and to the left.

The false wall hissed and slid smoothly away, retracting into itself, revealing a small opening. A breeze of cool air blew through the passage and he entered.

This room was similarly dim, but the darkness was pervaded by a bluish glow. Several seconds later his eyes adjusted enough to make out the contents of the room.

Almost every inch of the walls were covered in shelves, upon which were crammed a menagerie of objects: fat stacks of papers, bundles of cords and plugs, piles of computer parts and other unidentifiable paraphernalia. Where the walls weren't covered with shelves, the spaces were occupied with huge boxy server machines that blinked small green lights and filled the room with a constant whirring hum. Situated on the other end, he could make out a sofa, upon which sat a pillow and a blanket. He frowned; the only thing that was missing was the person who lived in this place.

"Patrik, are you there? It's Sey-"

He was cut off by a sharp nasally voice.

"I know, I saw you walk into the building, Seyrei." He snapped his head in the direction of the voice and noticed a thick cloud of pale smoke floating next to the sofa. He began walking across the room towards it. He saw there were no windows in the secret hideaway.

"How? I couldn't see any cameras in the lobby." He said evenly as he drew nearer to the cloud. Pausing before it, he waited for a reply. A moment passed and he entered the fog.

"And that's why they call me the best, my friend." In front of him was a black metal table upon which sat an enormous computer with six screens, and more devices plugged to it than Seyrei could place names for. Most of the screens were bright, displaying incomprehensible images, or scrolling with blocks of unintelligible words and numbers. And sitting in a wheeled office chair, eyes pasted to the screens, was a dark gray rat that couldn't have been out of his twenties.

Seyrei coughed loudly and waved a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to dissipate the choking smog around him. "Has anyone ever told you that smoking is bad for your health Desalahov?" He complained.

Patrik turned in his seat and looked at him. The rat wore a pair of torn jeans and a similarly mutilated black shirt over his stringy torso. On his arm was strapped some manner of overly complicated watch. His fur was short and greasy, and his eyes were beady and suspicious looking. Clamped almost protectively between his smoke-yellowed teeth was a great thick cigar, which was the source of the noxious fumes.

The rat put on an expression of exaggerated thoughtfulness and spoke, "Why yes, I have. In fact, you tell me yourself every damn time you show up here." He punctuated the statement by sucking in a large draw and blowing it deliberately in the mercenary's face. He ignored Russo's low growl of anger and continued, "And like you have room to talk, you old bastard; has anyone ever told you that getting shot and stabbed is bad for your health?"

Seyrei redoubled his coughing before snarling "Getting shot and stabbed I can live with, but this is fucking unbearable."

Patrik simply smiled innocently, "We'll see which one of us kicks it first then eh?" If any person on the street looked at the rat sitting before him, they would see just another foul mannered young person that spent too much time on a computer. At a glance, nobody would realize Patrik Desalahov was one of the most accomplished computer hackers in the world, on the payroll of the Kremlin and freelance agent, and if you believed the rumors, the only person to ever break into the ThiefNet servers.

Seyrei was inclined to believe. Leaning against a wall, he gestured at the collection of junk that filled the walls and spoke with a more serious tone. "So have you got it? You told me I could expect to get it by now."

Patrik simply nodded. Seemingly from nowhere he pulled a fat black cylinder about the size of a soup can. The smooth surface was fairly unremarkable, except for one of the ends, from which protruded an interface plug and a shiny key-like switch. When Seyrei took the object from Patrik's hand, he found it to be oddly heavy.

He was still gazing at the object when the diminutive hacker began speaking. "That will get you through the firewalls set up around ThiefNet's servers. I've programmed it with a code breaker that will allow you to bypass their security without being noticed." He took a look at Seyrei's blank expression and snorted. "I know you are _severely_ deprived of experience with computers, so I've made it really easy for you and automated the program." Seyrei scowled at the rat's patronizing jabs but listened without interrupting.

"You just stick that protruding bit into any computer that was made fairly recently with an internet connection and it will get you in. But make sure you don't screw up, it's designed to fry itself after one use, so don't unplug it until you have everything you need."

Seyrei nodded once and pocketed the code breaker. Once more the hacker spoke. "And for the love of God, don't lose it. Do you have any idea how hard it was to make a code that can beat ThiefNet's defenses?"

Seyrei simply grinned and said "That's why they call you the best."

"Humph, damn right I am." Patrik said and turned back to the screens. Once again in the 'Tech Trance' as he dubbed it, that he entered while using a computer, the rat was silent. Reaching into another pocket, Seyrei pulled out a thick stack of hundred Ruble notes and set them next to Patrik on the table. He turned and started towards the secret door to the fake apartment when Patrik called out. He turned and looked at him.

The rat was still facing the screens when he said, "I hear on the Interpol channels that you're going after the Cooper Gang." Seyrei just stood, letting the silence answer for him. Patrik nodded, "When you find them, could you punch that shelled prick in the face for me and Uncle Stevstey?"

Stevstey Desalahov had been Patrik's guardian as a child and mentor in the ways of computer manipulation. Stevstey had been a wealthy and respected Data Miner and information dealer, before certain up and coming Cooper Gang member broke into his personal system and stole a fortune's worth of data before alerting police. He died soon after in prison. Seyrei had always found that both he and Patrik were alike in their hatred for criminals, as ironic as it would seem.

In all the years Seyrei had known Patrik, the rat had never made a personal request of him. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then his grin widened and as he slipped out, he called back.

"Count on it."

XXXXXX

Several hours later found Seyrei Russo on the other side of Moscow in his room at the inexpensive motel he had rented. He had taken back streets and alleyways for the majority of the journey, yet had still gone painfully slow and cautiously, refusing to take even the slim chance of being followed.

He sat on the bed in the dark room, curtains drawn and cloth stuffed in the crack under the door, hunched over a laptop computer. Reflecting Patrik's remarks, even he admitted that the machine was probably quite outdated, but it served its purpose well and he had forgone more complex models.

His face, illuminated by the light from the screen, was a mask of anticipation. In theory, he had used similar methods many times before, and had learned that the internet could be a cornucopia of useful information on a hunt. But in practice, he had never tried searching the ThiefNet, which could be a holy grail of tools for a person like him.

He pondered for a moment why Patrik had not sold his method of breaking into the database, but quickly understood. Such a secret weapon was not only a goldmine, but an ace in the hole. Because if the Infamous ThiefNet could be infiltrated, how much more difficult could it be to violate the highest echelons of a Government? The message Patrik sent to any potential enemy, or employer, was clear: _Cross me, and all your darkest secrets are mine._

Carefully holding the code breaker, he plugged the heavy cylinder into a port on the side of the laptop.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then, windows popped up onto the screen from nowhere, flashing icons and lights in a dizzying storm, and command prompts and walls of code cascaded down the screen so quickly that his eyes hurt to look at them. He squeezed them shut and shook his head.

A moment later he opened his eyes and studied the display. A look of shock passed on his face, followed by a predatory grin of satisfaction.

_He was in._

He cracked his knuckles eagerly; the temptation provided by the promise of powerful knowledge against the world's worst scum was great, but he remembered Patrik's warning and set to work, sifting through this world of data to find a clue to his prey.

It was later that evening when Seyrei Russo stood up from the bed, throwing open the curtains and retracting the rags from the doorway. He pulled the Code Breaker from the laptop; almost immediately the device gave a shrill beep and crackled as waves of unseen current wreaked fatal havoc in its innards and was a soon silent, a tendril of acrid smoke curling from holes in the black casing. Dropping the dead machine on the carpet, he stomped powerfully on the device, shattering its shell and pulverizing the ruined components within. Calmly, he opened the room's window and tossed the broken remains out onto the street.

Turning back, he closed the laptop and stuffed it into a bag that he slung over his shoulder. Opening the door, he strode out with a look of absolute professionalism on his hard face. In his mind were only thoughts of determination, and the image he had studied on that computer screen, and the words that were branded to his memory.

* * *

><p><em>Posted 19 hours ago by SlyCoopGang<em>

_**Big job coming up Thursday; ready or not, here we come Belis-Phen's**__!_

* * *

><p>Seyrei was down the hall before the door clicked shut, moving with savage joy to hail a shuttle to the airport.<p>

He'd never seen a more beautiful Tuesday night.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Alright, so first off I'm sorry for vanishing from existence for a while, but I met some distraction. From here I should be updating fairly quickly, and Sly and Russo should be meeting for the first time in about two chapters, so bear with me please.<strong>_

_**As always, read and review!**_


	5. Deception and Discomfiture

Sometimes, sickness could be a real bitch.

Dante screwed up his eyes and his nose twitched, wrinkling the red and white of his muzzle. His head pitched back before the fox sneezed so thunderously that his head slammed into the wall he was leaning against, _hard. _

He straightened his position on the bed and groaned, trying to alternate between massaging the now bruised back portion of his skull, and the throbbing in his temples. Ears flattened, the fox waited until his bleary eyes refocused before sniffing and returning his glare to the raccoon sitting at the foot of the bed.

"No, there is no way in-"he was cut off midsentence by another body-wracking sneeze, "hell, that you're doing this." Though he meant it as a growl, the deflated statement sounded more like a wheeze.

Facing him, expression even, Sly sat on the opposite end of the bed, hands clasped behind his back. He'd been at this for nearly twenty minutes. Through his neutral tone, Dante could hear the frustration in his reply.

"I hardly think that this is your decision to make, _sweetheart._" Whether or not the last bit had been said with intentional bite, neither could tell, but Dante's fever sweat-matted fur bristled and he leaned forward, jabbing a shaky hand at the Cooper.

"_Anything _that has to do with your safety is a concern of mine." The sheer conviction and sudden ferocious clarity in Dante's illness-weakened voice actually stopped Sly short. The raccoon paused for a second and seemed to reconsider his words.

"Dante…Love, there's nothing to worry about." He said slowly, deliberately, "Bentley and I have gone over everything; every last air duct and alarm system. We have our plan down to the last detail, we have a backup plan, and a backup plan for that too. Escape routes for our escape routes, every contingency, we have covered!"

"Dante, I was a thief for years. Some go to say that I was the _best. _But how can I even live up to that honor, whether its mine or not to claim, if I don't _reach _for it?" he held out his hands, fingers splayed wide, a gesture of pleading. "I've seen every trick the Cops and other criminals have in their books, and have outdone them all, I've seen everything they could throw at me. "

A surge of feverish intensity flooded Dante's voice "But what happens when you meet something you haven't seen before? What then Sly? Yeah, you were a thief for a long time before you met me, but you didn't have a husband who was put into mortal agony whenever he couldn't keep you away from harm then either." He locked eyes with the Raccoon's, brilliant green boring into subdued brown. "I'd rather die than see you hurt."

If anyone else would have heard the fox then, not one could doubt the honesty of his words.

For a long moment, both sat in silence, each unwilling to break the gaze between them. Ultimately, it was Sly who desisted. Looking briefly at the ceiling of their shared bedroom, Sly tucked his chin to his collarbone and let out a slow, dejected sigh.

Looking up "I suppose I'm not going to change you're mind about the heist then?" he said with an air of resignation.

Dante snapped up one eyebrow in surprise then grinned smugly. "You're not going, not without me. It's obvious that I'm not going to go like this, and we both know that if you tried, I'd have you downed before you got out the door." With that, he crossed his muscular arms and leaned back against the wall, expression like that of a child who had just got his way.

Sly pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if he were pondering a great mystery. "Hmmm, well, I suppose I could just put sleeping medicine in your tea and go off on the heist and be back before you even woke up. Seeing as that's what you did to me when you went and got that necklace for me, it seems only fair."

Dante snorted, "That was different; and you're welcome for that too, you don't know how hard it was to get an exact replica made." He grinned cockily, "And I'm sure you mean, drug _this _tea?" He gestured to a steaming cup sitting on a bed table next to him. "The tea that I bought from the store myself, brewed personally, and have kept a sharp eye on the whole time? Not likely."

To emphasize the declaration, the fox picked up the cup and gulped down the entire contents in one swallow. He smiled like a self-satisfied cat at Sly.

When the Cooper simply returned the smile, Dante's front of confidence faltered. "Are you sure?" the raccoon said sweetly.

Dante began to sweat; he went over everything in his mind. Buying the tea, alone; brewing it in the kitchen, kettle double-checked and rinsed with water while alone; pouring the drink into a white cup with a red-stripe along the rim-

His eyes bulged open and he nearly lost hold of the teacup in the speed that he frantically brought it before his eyes: A white cup, _with a green stripe. _

He gaped in stupefied horror at his husband, who finally unfurled his arms from behind his back. In one hand he held the teacup from before, in the other, an empty vial of what was unmistakably surgical grade sleep agent.

Dante tried to speak, but his tongue failed him. Across from him, Sly gave a delicate wave of the cup and his smile widened. "You know, you should really be more observant when you share a house with a master thief." He said in a chastising tone, waggling a finger at his husband.

Mind reeling, the fox gasped and tried to stand, but found his legs horrifyingly numb. And that numbness was rapidly spreading up his body. His arms failed him and he slumped flat on the bed.

Innocently, Sly sauntered over to him and patted the top of his head sympathetically before simply saying "Payback, Dante. Sweet dreams."

Beneath him, the fox made a sound between a growl and a snore, "Wh-When I wake up, yew, are sho dea- " In the middle of his threat, Dante's eyes rolled up into his head and closed, his body going limp on the bed.

Chuckling to himself, Sly reached under the bed and retrieved the red knapsack and leg pouch he wore in the field, strapping them on his body. Turning back to the fox, Sly bent and kissed his forehead lightly.

He turned and started out the door, grabbing his Cane from its mount on the wall. He knew the fox would be _very _angry that next morning, but he would deal with that later. He needed this, even if Dante couldn't see it. He loved his husband more than anyone else in this world, but he had other obligations; to the rest of the Gang, and the family legacy his ancestors had left behind.

Striding through the kitchen and out the front door, he was bathed in afternoon sun and the throaty growl of a familiar automobile engine. He hopped into the back of the awaiting van, giving a quick thumbs-up to the hippo and Turtle inside before the vehicle gave an approving roar of its engines and sped away into the city beyond.

* * *

><p>In one of Stembolti's commercial sectors, a line of warehouses stood dark and deserted on the banks of a wide river. In the light of the day, they would be the storage area of various goods entering and leaving the city before being transported to their destinations by truck. Tonight it would serve another purpose.<p>

The street was completely deserted as Seyrei approached; the only sound his own boots on the concrete and the hushed gurgle of the river as it flowed in the darkness.

Whatever mercantile organization that maintained these warehouses was woefully under concerned with the security of their chattel Seyrei noted as he walked up to the door. Not a single guard patrolled the storehouses, and its owners had neglected to put any more deterrents to any intruders than a thin chain that secured the door shut. Almost incredulously he broke the chain and pulled the door open before stepping inside.

Stacked towers of crates and boxes towered to the ceiling near the back, but closer to the entrance, the floor was clear, and he moved over to that spot and divested his pack-a bag the size of his torso- and set it on the cold tile floor.

He adjusted the heavy travel coat he wore; the thing restricted his motion slightly, but he had grown used to the extra bulk in the forty years since he had obtained it. It could stop a knife short in its path, and offered better protection from gunshots than any bulletproof vest, not to mention it was utterly and stubbornly resistant to fire; a fact he had learned and was very grateful to discover. To him, the benefits outweighed the coat's inconveniences.

He bent down and opened the sack. From it he retrieved a knife with a heavily burnished leather grip. The eight and a quarter inch long blade shone a glossy black in the darkness, the cruelly sharp serrations running down the lower half of its length winked in the little light there was. Seyrei was no brute, and did not heavily favor fighting up close and personal, but the knife had proven itself to be invaluable in such situations, personally seeing off many a would-be criminal mastermind to the afterlife. He grasped the handle and squeezed it fondly before he fastened the knife to a mesh pocket on his chest.

Reaching back into the sack, he pulled out a cylindrical spool coiled with black flexible Ironcord-a fairly new innovation in restraining tech, the stuff was strong as any wristclamp, but was light as sewing thread, and capable of binding up criminals that exceeded "standard" police handcuffs.

Next he took a number of fat pen-shaped objects: Autoinjectors filled with the strongest fast-acting tranquilizers the various illicit chemists he contracted with could cook up.

Other, myriad items he removed from the sack until only a single remained. As he gazed at it, he reached a gloved forefinger out and brushed the silver surface. A thin grin cracked his dry lips, and he smiled.

XXXXX

After stashing the bag in some brush on the bank of the river, Seyrei fastened his coat buckles and hobbled back up to the street. Soles of his boots thumping against the road, he set off deeper into the city, the reassuring weight of his equipment hanging on his body, thin tail swishing as he went.

Taking out the little drinking flask in his pocket, he unscrewed the cap and took a deep draught. The Temperate night air felt highly refreshing on his face as he walked, and a wide toothy grin split his features. His innards churned with a morbid giddiness.

It was a sensation unlike any other, the anticipation that came during a hunt. It was unlike any drug or fleshly pleasure he'd ever experienced; one that set his blood boiling in his veins and fire in the center of his bones. He craved it. Damn near lived for it.

Cooper could make his little spouts about thievery being in his blood. He could care less what excuses the rat used. But hunting was part of who he was, something that was forged into his character as much as his need to breathe or sleep, and that connection spanned-not just to the start of his simple lineage, but to the first of his kind, when his first ancestors stepped out from the lowness of ferality.

There were few enough things Seyrei Russo could say he loved in this world, and apart from his Babba, God, and Vodka, he would gladly give any of those things away to remain able to hunt the criminals of the world.

Replacing the flask, he reached into another pocket and pulled out three identical rectangles of plastic, each adorned with the visage of a certain masked Raccoon, a bespectacled turtle, and a brawny hippo. As he walked, he began tossing each into the air, and snatching them before the hit the ground, juggling the three thin slabs.

Soon enough, the looming shape of the building that was his destination came into view in the far distance of the skyline. In the quiet night, he opened his mouth and began to sing as he walked.

"_Ty kazala v ponedilok pidem razom po barvinok Ya pryishov tebe nema, Pidmanula, pidvela…"_

* * *

><p><strong>Well, here we are, and aren't I embarrassed, eh? I suppose the moral of today is, don't ever trust a word I say when it comes to updates. I give you all my most sincere apologies and hope you enjoy this chapter. Next one will be when The Gang meet Seyrei for the first time. The song Seyrei starts to sing is a Ukrainian folk song called Pidmanula, Pidvela.<strong>

**As always, most sincere thanks to Slylady for letting me use Dante. I hope I kept him in character for you!**

**Until next time.**


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